There was once a child who went to an old woman who asked her what she would like to have, for the little one had neither sweets, nor ornaments, nor clothes; but the child said "Oh Mother, give me a flower that opens in the heart."
How do you like that? You must see it in the original—the answer of the child sounds so sweet. There is a deep meaning in bloementaal.[2]
"Njoewoen sekar melati hingkang mekar hing poendjering ati." That is what one hears all the time. We are now busy writing down everything interesting that we hear from the mouths of the people. There is no word for poetry in our language. We say "bloementaal," and is it not well said.
We are learning songs. Not songs of rejoicing—have you ever heard one of that kind from a Javanese? The gamelan never rejoices, even at the most extravagant festivals, its tone is mournful. Perhaps that is well, life is mournful; not a song of rejoicing.
These pages have been written under the influence of sweet and sad singing. It is evening, windows and doors are open; the fragrant breath of the blooming tjempaka beyond our chamber comes to greet us with the cool breeze that rustles through its branches. I sat upon the floor, just as I do now at a long low table, at my left was sister Roekmini also writing. To the right of me was Annie Glazer, she too on the floor. Before me was a woman who read from a book of songs. They were very beautiful, and the pure, serene, sonorous tones seemed to carry our souls far away, nearer to the realm of the blessed. How I wish that you could be sitting there with us in that little circle. You would have felt with us and dreamed with us. Dreams! Life is not a dream. It is cold, sober reality, but even reality does not have to be ugly, unless we make it so.
It is not ugly—it is beautiful. We always have beauty within us. This is the reason that I wish that in education, emphasis were laid upon character forming, and first of all upon the cultivation of strength of will; it should be instilled into the child.
But I am wandering from my subject. This time I wanted to write to you about our people, and not about education.
There is an old woman here from whom I have gathered many flowers that spring from the heart. She has already given me much, and has still more to give, and I wish for more; always more. She is willing, but first I must earn her treasures, I must buy her flowers—why? Why must I pay?
Solemnly the words sounded from her lips; "Fast a day and a night, and pass that time awake and in solitude."
"Door nacht tot licht,[3]
door storm tot rust,
door strijd tot eer
door leed tot lust."